Jerusalem Mortimer wants a word

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Monthly Archives: June 2015

I said, “Keep your mouth open. This is going to hurt, and I want to hear you.” I liked saying that. It sounded cruel, and I expected that Raylene would find it exciting. It paid attention to her, close and detailed attention.

Raylene opened wide, as though she was at the dentist. Her face had reddened a little more, because of her own obedience. But her ass was redder still.

I took another moment to admire her, that sweetly curved bottom, muscular and womanly, and red, splotched with stripes of an even deeper red. I liked her body more the longer we spent together.

Then I swung the strop, aiming for her underbum, just above the crease of her thighs. She was startled, but she was almost silent, though she was breathing hard.

So I made the next four a little harder, and delivered them fast. Raylene’s ass and thighs shook with the effort of keeping still, and she moaned, a long, low note: “Oh-wo-wo-wo-wo-wo-wo”. It sounded like “woe” to me, though I doubt if she was making words.

I paused at the fourth stroke. “That’s thirteen strokes, Raylene. You’re being very good. And very brave. I’m impressed.”

I left a pause, so that if she wanted she could say she couldn’t take it, and make me reassure her that she could. But Raylene had no protest to make, not even an insincere one.

She stilled herself, getting her hips under control. She arched her ass up, in the hottest and best invitation of all, and waited.

She was breathtaking, in that position. I took a breath. I let her watch me raise the strop over my shoulder.

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I didn’t wait. I swung the razor strop down, I hoped about half as hard as her first six. It landed diagonally, the leather crossing earlier stripes and licking round at her left hip. Raylene’s arse shook under the impact, and she began the dance of a girl getting flogged, rocking her hips up and down, and then shaking her arse from side to side. Then she breathed, “Oh-owie-owie!”

So I was happy. “Owie” is a word. It’s a word about pain, that expresses pain, but it’s a word. The person who says it is able to speak. The noises she’d made for her first six, harder, strokes hadn’t been words; they’d been simply, directly, pain noises. She’d still been stung by that last stroke, but whether she noticed it or not she’d found it easier to take. If I kept the strokes at this level her remaining two dozen strokes would be easier for her. Well, twenty-three strokes, now.

Raylene stopped shaking and dodging, and arched her back, cat-like, to get her ass up and presented. She said, “Seven, thank you, Sir.”

“That’s a good girl. But you can stop counting the strokes now.”

“Oh? Thank you, Sir.”

“Because the next dozen will come too fast to count. And they’ll be hard.”

“Oh. Yes, Sir.” I noticed her expression. Raylene was serene, with a little half-smile. Maybe just a quarter-smile. But I was being mean. And so she was happy.

Raylene looked at me. About quarter of an hour ago she’d have said something sarcastic and challenging: “Oh, this is the warning that you’re going to whack the shit out of me with a razor strop? No, wait, you already are.” Or something on those lines.

But her mood had changed. Six strokes with a razor strop will do that. She didn’t move. And what she said was, “Sir?”

“Good girl. Something you need to know. After the first few strokes, the strop tends not to hurt as much. Because your skin is already warmed up.”

“Um? It’s going to hurt less? Hmm.” She seemed ready to believe that. ” Why is that a warning? Sir.”

“Because I don’t want it to hurt less. So I’m going to have to strap you harder.”

She had 24 strokes to go. I wanted her to succeed in taking them, and to feel excited and proud of herself.

But Raylene had never had to hold position before. She had no reason to trust that the heat and sting left by the strop would soon be glowing and feeling good. She’d been told about that, not only by me, but she’d never experienced it for herself.

I’d chosen the number of strokes for the psychological effect on Raylene, so she’d be impressed with herself – 30 strokes! – and feel she’d taken a new and major step in her life.

But if I pushed her too hard too fast, it’d be too much for her to enjoy. The moment she thought, “Ouww! Why the fuck am I doing this?” the spell was broken.

She’d only ask that question if she wasn’t enjoying herself. She’d get up, and we’d never get the momentum back. We’d lose this mutual recognition we’d achieved.

Usually I’d make the force of the middle strokes about half as hard as I did for the first and last strokes. But as I read Raylene, she’d be grateful for the respite while it was happening, and then unhappy afterwards because I hadn’t trusted her enough, and she hadn’t really had those 30 strokes.

So if I made the next three lots of six as hard as the first six, then there was a good chance she wouldn’t be able to take it, and it’d all be over. Anyway I hadn’t really wanted or intended to be as severe as “thirty strokes” sounded. But if she noticed me going easy on her, I’d also be disappointing her.

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